


Wheels on Fire

by FlareWarrior



Series: Kinktober 2017 [11]
Category: Baby Driver (2017)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Edgeplay, First Time, Future Fic, Hand Jobs, Kinktober 2017, M/M, Shotgunning, sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 06:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12524744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlareWarrior/pseuds/FlareWarrior
Summary: The years are starting to show on the backs of his fingers, but he's young enough that they're still whipcord quick on a wheel. He's not sure why he's worrying about that kind of thing at twenty-nine. He's got some guesses. (Or: Baby needs a job, and Doc doesn't intend to pass up his second chance.)





	Wheels on Fire

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually the first one I wrote but editing took 5ever. Title stolen from a screenshot of all Baby's tapes.

The years are starting to show on the backs of his fingers, but he's young enough that they're still whipcord quick on a wheel. He's not sure why he's worrying about that kind of thing at twenty-nine. He's got some guesses.

Black SUVs roll up and shine their lights on the stick-dry bushes and rocky sand of the Arizona desert, reveal him in full view on a set of crumbling stairs that lead nowhere. Whatever brick building they're meeting in is well on its way to being reclaimed by the earth.

Men pour out, guns and presumably voices aimed at him. He turns his music up to drown them out, at least until the man he's looking for is framed by the bright lights.

' _Jesus. You're a kid_.'

Doc doesn't look as fucked up as Baby'd expected. He still stands ramrod straight, still casts an imposing figure, still has the gaze of an armed death ray. There are no scars visible on his face, but he has a cane in his right hand.

' _What are you, twelve? What's your name? No, don't tell me_.'

"Well," Doc says. "Baby. To what do I owe the honor?"

' _I'm just going to call you Baby_.'

"I need money."

Doc laughs, but it sounds strange. It always sounds strange. This time it's because he's not amused, he's incredulous. "You're gonna have to work for it."

"I know."

Baby's laid out what he's asking well enough with those words. Doc is watching him, but Baby can't see what expression is on his face with him framed by the headlights.

"And the girl?" The laughter is gone from his voice.

Baby can't hide his grimace, as pained as it is resigned. "She liked waiting better than having."

Doc's shoulders rise and fall on a sigh. "I got another driver."

"Oh," of course, of course he did. Six years was a long time and a lot of crime to go through without a regular driver. "So you don't-"

"Come on, kid, you know no one's half as good as you." He snaps his fingers and waves the men with the guns off. Baby'd forgotten about them for the most part. They reluctantly lower their weapons and, after a nod from Doc, head into the building. "Did you get that, or would you like to hear me say it again?"

"What?"

Doc strides over, a soft tap-swish added to his footsteps on the sandy pavement from his cane. Baby can't tell if he really needs it or if he's just found a convenient way to keep a weapon on hand. Doc comes to a stop at the head of the stairs, which puts him on the high ground a step above Baby, taller as he isn't naturally, though he always seems it. Baby pushes off the wall of the stairwell to face him.

"I had a lot of free time after that job, you know. Something like ninety percent of your tapes were just remixes of me saying nice things about you."

That - that's true. He'd forgotten, figured the tapes had been lost when the cops showed up. Hadn't expected Doc to care much about them past making sure they weren't incriminating, once whispers on the wind started saying he was alive. Baby drops his eyes. No one was supposed to hear them.

Doc's hand comes up and insistently catches his chin, tilts his head until he looks back. Doc's watching him, unreadable. His thumb sits heavily against Baby's plush lower lip.

"I wouldn't touch you before," he says, like he's talking about the weather. Except Doc can make the weather sound dangerous, and he does now. Baby's heartrate ratchets up and the air feels cold on his suddenly warming skin. He thought he'd known what he was here for. Maybe he hadn't. "I wanted to, but not while you were under my thumb, and not while I couldn't trust you." Doc’s eyes drop to Baby's lips for a moment, where his thumb pulls down just enough to part them. "So how about it?" he asks, low and quiet.

Baby expects to feel the wall biting into his shoulder blades, half expects to be taken under the harshness of the car headlights. He expects grit between his teeth and copper on his tongue. He expects to be made to give more than he knows he has, and he expects that agreeing is another one of those gates he can't back out of once he's through it.

Doc's lips are thinner than his, but he's licked them at some point in all this, so they shine in the reflected light from the cars. Baby’s spent a lot of time watching those lips.

Baby nods.

He doesn't expect Doc's eyes to darken, or he does, but not the way they darken, intent and hungry and almost, almost hesitant. Doc's thumb slides to his cheek, supporting, as he dips to kiss him. Baby's tense for the first second. Waiting to be plundered, waiting to be burnt out from the inside.

But he isn't. Doc's lips are firm and sure, patient, and there's something else, something in his unhurried touch that makes Baby want more than he's being given. He relaxes in degrees, pressing forward, off-balance at having to press up. Something trembles to life inside his chest, something longing and needy. He keeps his hands at his sides, not sure he's allowed to touch, balls them into fists to keep from taking bracing fistfuls of Doc's coat.

When Doc's lips finally part Baby surges against him. He tastes like bourbon and something expensive, and Baby forgets himself, bunches the thick navy wool in his fingers and sways into his chest. Doc makes a sound in his throat and drops his cane to wind his other hand through Baby's hair, and what hesitancy he'd been projecting fractures. Baby finds himself shaking, realizes it belatedly when the thumb on his cheek brushes a soothing trail along the bone, leaving a blaze of heat in its wake.

He gasps whenever they break for air and almost hopes for the rough, inconsiderate fuck he'd been expecting, for anything _more_.

"Baby, did you think I'd hurt you?" Doc asks, fingers stroking softly through the hair at the nape of Baby's neck. Baby flushes when he realizes how telling his reluctance must have been. "I waited far too long to screw this up being hasty now."

Doc draws away to fetch his cane, and Baby has to consciously unhook his fingers from his coat to allow it. "I'd ask your place or mine, but I'm guessing yours is closer." Doc says like he hasn't just shattered Baby's perception of the world.

"What about the meeting?" Baby, on the other hand, sounds like he's chewed gravel.

"Not your concern. Now are you going to take me to your place or not?"

He folds both hands on top of his cane and levels Baby with an expectant gaze. Baby's so used to responding to that look that he's moving before he really thinks about it, turning and heading for his car. Doc's footsteps follow, just uneven enough for Baby to think he does use the cane, but could live without it. The weaponization is probably just too convenient to give up.

He drives for a living, but having Doc in the passenger seat feels different. _Precious cargo_ , his mind proposes as explanation, and he turns the radio up to tune it out. He'd come for a job and now he's about to get fucked by his boss, a boss who's half-convinced him that had been part of his own plan all along with only a few words and a powerful kiss.

He was wrong when he agreed. Not in agreeing, but in assuming he couldn't back out. He's the one behind the wheel. He's the one with the keys to his apartment. He's the one who knows where they're going, and even if the cane is hiding a shotgun he's got a decent chance of getting away.

Every bit of the control he has was freely given, has put Doc in a more precarious position than Baby’s in, and that makes him wonder if he should even be worrying about escape routes.

His apartment is on the fourth floor of a run-down building so far outside Phoenix that the rent is almost reasonable. The elevator is broken, and Doc gives him a disappointed look before ascending the stairs. He doesn't flinch or falter, so the disappointment has nothing to do with his lingering injury. No, it's all for Baby's lifestyle. He confirms this by raising his eyebrows disdainfully at his barren studio apartment when Baby flicks the lights on.

"Not big on creature comforts, are you?" He asks. Baby glances around. His bed is unmade, tucked against the one wall with windows. His kitchen is clean, mostly because he has enough dishes for about two days tops. His bedside table is a mess, but the least organized looking space is the corner with his music equipment.

"I don't need much."

"Well, you'll learn with me."

That sounds...long-term. Baby shifts on his feet, wrong-footed and waiting for a cue. When one doesn't come he bites the bullet and strips off his shirt, then his pants and underwear. For a long moment after he steps out of them, Doc trails his gaze appreciatively over Baby's bare skin. The look is so heavy Baby feels it like a caress, one that, had it been more than a phantom sensation, he might have leaned into just so the roughness made it less intimate.

Doc's pupils blow as his eyes linger, like he's casing Baby for weak points, on his sharp collar bones, the tightening pink buds of his nipples, his hipbones, his thickening cock.

But he doesn't move. After what feels like an age Doc's wicked gaze trails back to look into his eyes, by far the most intimate of looks yet, like he's being patient.

He waits, and Doc only watches him.

Once his anxiety has reached a bursting point he splays his hands. It's goading, he realizes a second too late, but he can't take any more suspense.

Doc smiles a bit.  "Aren't you going to put your music on?"

Oh. Baby ducks his head, suddenly feeling more exposed than he had seconds before though he was no more naked. "It's not as bad anymore."

" _As_ bad," Doc repeats. "I don't mind, you know."

Baby swallows a little rougher than the situation calls for and shuffles to the stereo on his nightstand. He's got tapes - none of Doc's voice, anymore - but he's got a feeling he needs a longer playlist, so he hooks up an iPod and sets it on shuffle. He turns and finds Doc with his head tilted, listening to the first few notes of The Dirty Heads.

"Thought you preferred the classics?"

"Not everything new is terrible."

Doc smiles again, almost warm, and Baby's half tempted to switch to the iPod with the Twilight Zone theme on it. Then Doc at last sheds his coat and scarf, folding them over Baby's single hard-backed chair. His blazer follows, but he stops there and comes to stand before Baby beside the bed. He leaves his cane leaning against the footboard.

"Reedy beanpole," Doc mutters, then, "are you going to sit, or do you want to see me on my toes?"

Baby's half tempted to stay on his feet, just to test how far his newfound power goes, but he's bad at denying Doc. He eases himself onto the bed and tilts his head up expectantly. Doc looks down at him for a long moment, something like affection clouding his gaze. The kiss is quick, much quicker than in the parking lot, and when Doc breaks off Baby chases him, feeling strangely crestfallen.

"Wait," Doc orders. He rolls up his cuffs, which Baby frowns at since he's stark naked already and that move implies Doc intends to stay exactly as dressed as he is. Doc smirks at him as he picks up the lube from the bedside table, which, since he lives alone now, he hasn't bothered to put away.

"You're the one who was so eager," he says as he kneels, slicking his palm.

Doc's first touch has him holding on to the edge of the mattress, hissing breath from between his teeth, and it's all downhill from there, because Doc's so close he can smell him, can see him crouched and real between his legs, exposed forearms working as he brings Baby to a panting, trembling mess.

He wants to touch, wants to wrap his hands around Doc's, wants it hard and fast until he spends in Doc's fist. But Doc knows what he's doing more than any girl ever has and he defers, hunches and shivers desperately through what he's given. Doc pumps him with slow finesse, like he's savoring the privilege.

He doesn't realize he's closed his eyes until Doc's hot mouth closes wetly on one of his nipples. He moans as Doc teases it tight with his tongue, then jolts when he worries his teeth against it. Distantly Baby agrees with his earlier assessment - Doc had been planning a hostile takeover. He makes a desperate sound when Doc switches to the other side, feeling pressure building in his gut, tightening his balls.

Then Doc's gone, and Baby can't hold in a mournful whine.

"Don't complain, angel."

Baby blinks at the nickname, then flushes when he remembers making a tape after the first time Doc had called him that. And playing it. A lot. When Doc kisses him again he's smirking, the bastard.

Baby falls back onto the bed when Doc pushes him, shifts so he's lying against the pillows with his knees up while Doc kicks off his shoes and slides onto the mattress between his feet. He glides a hand up Baby's shin once he's settled, his appreciative gaze trailing higher.

"Would you spread your legs for me?" He asks. Baby swallows and does.

Doc drops a kiss on his knee as he comes to kneel between his legs and glides a hand to Baby's cock, still hard and weeping, while the other, slicked with the lube he'd left uncapped on the bed, slides behind his balls to circle his entrance.

Breath shudders out of Baby's chest at the foreign feeling. Two slick fingers press and rub at him until he's squirming, wanting more even though he's not sure what he wants more of.

"Relax," Doc whispers, and at last pushes the tip of one finger past his rim.

" _Oh_ ," Baby breathes as he slides deeper, in to the knuckle. It occurs to him that he may be jumping in both feet a little quickly. He's never done this, not with someone else or even with himself, but under his rabbiting heartbeat, the shuddering unfamiliarity of the feeling, he's parched for _more_. Wants to chase the little flickering sparks dancing up and down his spine, wants to bask in the heady rush of strangeness.

"Ok?" Doc asks, and he nods.

He slides back out and Baby takes fistfuls of his pillow to hold on. Doc's apparently decided that in this, he's going to be careful but relentless. Baby trembles against his sheets, pants at the intense heat and chiffon clouds of desire that well in his body. A second finger joins the first, massages its way in while he twists at the stretch. Doc shifts, and he's too distracted to wonder why until he feels teeth against his hip. His eyes fly open to watch as Doc nips his way down the pronounced bone. It feels compulsive, like he couldn't resist, until he takes his stroking hand off Baby's cock and, as his fingers slide in deep, wraps his lips around the head.

Baby arches, legs splaying, and barely keeps himself from coming on the spot. Distantly he feels the fingers in him spread and stretch him wider, shaking him to his core and making him teeter on the edge.

Doc seems to have a meter for it, because the moment Baby's sure this is it, he's not going to last, Doc pulls off and bands his fingers tight around the base of Baby’s cock. Baby shouts this time, brokenly, not even sure how he's come down as he does.

"Fuck," he declares, frustrated.

Doc huffs and he shivers when the breath ghosts over his erection. He's barely got time to feel relieved after Doc takes his hand away before he _does something_ with his fingers and Baby's backsliding, keening at the unexpected shock of pleasure. Doc chuckles at him, and _keeps doing it_.

"Ah," he gasps, over and over while he rises a third time to the edge, the feeling at his core getting stronger with each surge of pleasure.

Even though he's expecting it this time, he still collapses, bereft, when Doc's fingers withdraw. Doc goes with them, though, and Baby aches all at once with a sudden loneliness.

He feels slick, wet and open and empty where he's never felt those things before. He squirms on the bed, digs his fingers into the sheets on a shaky, involuntary keen.

"Shh," Doc's palm smooths up the inside of his thigh. His hands are soft, the hands of a man who leads with his words. Baby shivers at the touch, spreads his legs wider as it trails down, feels bereft again when it leaves.

The bed dips as Doc returns, accompanied by a gentle clacking sound and sloshing liquid. Fingers snake under Baby's head and coax him up into a tangy kiss, until Doc nudges his lips open and the warm, creamy burn of Bailey’s flooded his mouth. Even straight the alcohol is only a dull ache under the flavor, thick and sweet. Baby hummed against his lips, swallowing and chasing the liquid back into Doc's mouth until he pulls away.

"You always liked it," Doc says quietly, taking another drink from his flask. Baby watches his throat bob, then drops his eyes to take in the miles of newly exposed flesh. He's shed his clothes at last, and Baby's eyes trail over his barrel chest, linger on the silver starburst there from the bad job. Surgical scars are littered on his skin, his shoulders and legs tracked with them from the crash. Baby’s guilt struggles to win out against his lust, then falls to the wayside when he drops his eyes and sees the condom stretched over Doc's erection.

"How do you want to do this?" Doc asks.

Baby's eyes snap back to Doc's face. He wonders if he looks as put together as Doc still does, or if his hair is wrecked and his skin is as flushed as it feels.

"I don't..." have any fucking clue, he wants to say. "I don't make the plans," he opts for instead.

Doc's lips quirk, like he's heard both replies anyway. He takes another swig from the flask, then sets it aside and trails his hand back down between Baby's legs as he leans in to share the shot.

Baby arches and moans against Doc's lips, chasing the burn of the alcohol in time with the insistent glide of the palm along his shaft.

The first shot is fuzzing Baby’s thoughts when Doc moves to slot in between his spread thighs, pushes his thumb into him just to see him bow.

"Such long legs," Doc says, sliding his hand up the back of his thigh to cradle his knee and mouthing along the muscle. "You're young. You can bend for me, can't you?"

Baby watches him, propped up on his elbows, bites his lip. Doc's eyes drop to watch him release it deliberately, eyes darkening.

He's never been particularly flexible, but he is determined, and he manages to move the way Doc arranges him, so he's splayed wide and open, knees parted and close to his chest, on display. He wouldn't have noticed, too caught up in building need, if Doc hadn’t paused over him to stare.

"Doc," he says, fighting to keep his voice even and not equal parts pleading and embarrassed.

Doc hums and takes the base of his covered cock in his hand without further prompting. Baby drops his head onto the pillow and focuses on breathing when he feels blunt pressure against his rim from something bigger than Doc's fingers. The pressure builds insistently, unyielding, and he shivers under it.

"Relax," Doc whispers, and Baby can't wonder if it's good advice when Doc slides in a second later, achingly thick, too much and not enough at once.  He gasps, hands flying up to brace himself, when Doc keeps going, inch by slow, relentless inch.

"Oh, god, look at you," Doc murmurs reverently, and Baby lets out a shaky sob in reply as he bottoms out.

Baby gasps for breath like a drowning man, his hands gripping Doc's shoulders too tightly. Doc's voice is in his ear a moment later, shaky, quiet, reverent, worried. "Do you want to stop?"

"Yes," he hisses, oversensitive and mindless. Then Doc is pulling out and he scrambles to hold him in, keep him. "No, no, just for-" he swallows, blinks his eyes so that Doc's expression of concern flickers like a film reel. "Don't move."

He's still not sure what to make of it, the feeling of Doc _inside_ him, coupled with the feeling of _Doc_ , inside him. He shifts experimentally, clenches and lets up a few times before Doc lets out a shaky breath against his chest.

" _Baby_ ," Doc says, more pleading than admonishing.

Baby relaxes as much as he can, trying to ride out the shivers and get used to the fullness. The music isn't quite enough, almost drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears as it is. He needs a distraction, something to think about that isn't Doc, sweet and thick like his alcohol, spearing him open and kissing along his chest. Distantly he wonders, if this is how Doc is with a driver he's only moderately fond of, how Doc usually fucks. And just like that he has his distraction, because there's someone Doc would like to do this with more.

"W-who?" He asks, fighting not to swallow his own tongue.

"Who?" Baby closes his eyes when the repeated question vibrates through both of them.

"You said...you were in love. Tell me about her."

Doc goes even stiller above him. Then he huffs, a self-deprecating little sound, and drops low to press them closer together. "Wasn't a her, Baby," he says, unexpectedly dry, unexpectedly heavy. "And he never even told me his name."

Baby blinks at the ceiling. Wonders briefly what planet he's landed on. "Oh," he says dumbly.

He used to get the coffee for himself, too. Used to, until he was seventeen and found himself cornered in the stairwell by a member of that week's crew after drinking it, numb and blinking away a million stars from his vision while hands pulled at his clothes.

He remembers, " _Relax, we're celebrating_."

He remembers, " _What are you doing?!"_

He remembers waking up in his own bed in all his clothes with nothing but the surety that he'd been called _sleeping beauty_. He remembers that no one was allowed to say that particular criminal's moniker within Doc's earshot, even as a warning to others, even to wonder what ever happened to him.

He remembers Doc angry and demanding respect, demanding he _listen when he speaks_ , until sweat had broken out on his's brow from just how loud the ringing was, and the regretful, pained look on Doc's face when Baby'd muttered a less than sufficient explanation of why he kept the earbuds in, why he read lips.

He remembers a thousand little words, a thousand little beats of his heart he'd made music.

There isn't anyone else Doc would rather be doing this with.

"Oh," he says again, lower and somewhat desperate. "Move."

"Ready?"

Baby just whines insistently. Doc presses another kiss to his sternum and obeys, rocks into him gently, and Baby's fingertips dig into Doc’s back as he tosses his head against the pillow. He wants more and less at once, still doesn't know what to do with the conflicting new sensations that are dancing along his nerves. Doc picks his pace up marginally, so he stays on that knife edge until it tips completely over into a hot, building need.

Whatever Doc's brought to life inside him is arcing pleasure up his spine on every roll of his hips, more as he gets bolder, draws out and slides in, never sticking with a motion long enough for Baby to get familiar with it. He has the distinct impression he's being savored, worked and explored and familiarized. It's driving him _mad_. He lets out a broken, frustrated cry on a deep, claiming thrust, and Doc at last settles into a powerful rhythm, and it's got to be because of how long he's been teased that it drives him to the brink so quickly. Sweat dampens the sheets under him while he writhes against them, desperation rising with a fire in his blood. Doc's hot breath on his neck sends fireworks ricocheting along his nerves, soft kisses enough to draw broken moans from his lips. He wants to grind up but he doesn't have any goddamn leverage.

"Harder," he begs at last, winding a hand in Doc's hair. Doc smirks against his collar, bites like he's been considering it for a while, and that's _too much_.

" _Please_ ," he gasps, repeats it again and again until Doc's hand trails down and wraps around his shaft. He cries out and twists, trying and failing to thrust into the touch, vision blurring with what he'll hope later weren't tears.

He comes quietly on a sharp gasp, but what he lacks in volume he makes up for in motion. He arches, pushing his hips desperately into Doc's, throwing his head back so the long column of his neck, accentuating his frantic pulse and the convulsive motion of his jaw, makes a sinful display.

He feels rather than hears an "Oh," rumble from Doc's chest, soft, then something else, something that feels a little like "beautiful," before Doc’s hips surge forward, pushing him in deep as he follows Baby over the edge.

Baby finds himself fuzzy-headed and dazed an indeterminant amount of time later, Doc folded against his back, somehow pulling off a decent big spoon though he's not really big enough for it, at least compared to Baby. He looks at their hands, at some point twined together close to his chest.

"What's your name?" Baby asks.

"Miles." There's humor in Doc's voice, a smile pressed into the back of Baby's neck. "It's Miles."

 

The door slam echoes like a gunshot in the underground and Baby winces just a little. With slow deliberation, he climbs out of the driver's seat. Doc is waiting by the elevator, starts stalking over once he cuts the engine. Baby sets himself on the hood, presses play on his next song.

"Man, your boy is weird as shit but he sure ain't slow," crows one of the mooks of the week, grinning with red teeth as he hefts his bag of cash.

Doc comes to an abrupt stop about four meters out, makes it look planned. His eyes are locked on Baby's purpling nose.

"What happened?" He asks.

The mook looks between them, scratches his neck. The other two have paused in heading for the elevator to wait for them. "We robbed a bank-" he begins lightly.

"I wasn't talking to you."

The mook sniffs, folding his arms like a sullen teenager. Baby frowns a bit, puts his headphones in and turns the music up loud.

"He didn't like my driving," he says.

Doc's lips go thin.

"Kid wasn't payin' attention-" says the mook. Baby reads it from his lips before Doc snaps like a whipcord and a bang echoes over the dulcet tones of Stevie Wonder. The mook crumples like a jenga tower. Doc shoots him two more times for good measure. He's been a strong proponent of the double tap since they met again.

"What the fuck!" Cries one of the others.

"Split the take three ways," Doc shouts, resuming his stride until he reaches Baby, until his legs brush the bumper between Baby's spread thighs, and Baby spreads them a little wider to accommodate. The others are blocked from Baby's vision, along with most of the underground, by Doc's broad, looming form.

Doc frowns at the swelling. His cane grinds on the rough pavement as he shifts it to his left hand, frees his right to skate carefully down the bridge of Baby's nose. Baby hisses at the sharp sting the pressure elicits. Doc lets go of his cane entirely to set a comforting hand on Baby's arm.

"It's not broken," he observes, moving his hand down.

Doc tilts his chin up, far enough that Baby feels a little stretch in his throat, so he manages to avoid brushing Baby's nose when he kisses him softly. There's an apology on his lips, unspoken, that he imparts with careful pressure and proximity.

"Gross," another mook chimes.

Doc pulls back and does the thing with his voice that implies he's a half a second from making another dead body, and is really very exasperated about it. "Do you want to walk out of here or not?"

The crewman raises his hands in surrender, then shuffles off towards the elevator.

Doc returns his attention to Baby, frowning at the bruising. “Come on. We’ll send one of the others for coffee this time.”


End file.
